Dog Dreams
by gypsy season
Summary: How can you be so sure you’re awake if you don’t even know you’re dreaming?


The idea for this fic came to me once I finished Miss B's chapter 9 of 'Que Quieras.' I looked down to see my dog, lying on the carpet, calm and placid until her legs jerked, nose twitched, eyes moving beneath her eyelids, obviously dreaming. But it was interesting to watch her relax and then stiffen again, and I began to wonder what dog dreams look like. What do they see when they close their eyes?

Now we all know Sands is not a dog, but I just felt the two situations connected for long enough to let me write this little ficlet. Sorry to mind-fuck you, guys. I've done it to the Matrix once, but despite how bad I feel about it, I just had to do it again.

None of it's mine. It all belongs to Senor Rodriguez, because when OTM is on the mind, Rodriguez is god.

Dog Dreams

The street was the mattress and the dust was the blanket for Sands as he lay on a bed of pain, knees tucked into his chest, hands clutching his head. The screaming, searing pain was his lullaby, the devil himself singing the agent to sleep. But he couldn't give in, not just yet, even though his skull was splitting in two and his life was rapidly bleeding away.

He was drenched in his own blood, blood of the father, son and the blood of that damn ghost too, which was what he feared he was about to be come. It was what would happen to him if he let himself sleep now.

Not that he was still able to sleep anymore.

In order for one to fall asleep, one must first shut their eyes. Thanks to special Agent "Barillo," Sands wasn't on that list anymore. He wondered if his sleeping habits would be reduced to simply passing out whenever he was exhausted. He wondered what had become of his eyelids. Were they shredded like his eyes, two little red blobs on the floor of wherever that sick fuck made it so Sands would never see too much again? Or were they still there, refusing to blink shut over eyes that were no longer there?

Either way, eyelids or not, they hurt. He left his sunglasses on to keep from grabbing them, but it wasn't doing much good. He lay with his head in his hands, palms forcing the sunglasses into his face, making imprints. His teeth were clenched, trying to hold back the inevitable scream building in his throat.

Occasionally, he would let out a moan or a low, desperate-sounding cry he had to cut off before it grew into something more, something terrible. He had already scared the kid away a long time ago, before the devil had tucked him into bed and bid him sour dreams.

He did not sleep, but he did dream. They were projected over the red hot pain he felt burning in his eye sockets as if a part of a slide show. He dreamt of dust and guns, needles and drills, eyes, beer and blood. Lots of blood. Funny how he still saw the blood as it poured down his face, coating his cheeks, jaw, leg, arm and the hands that had unsuccessfully tried to wipe it away.

He was surprised the blood didn't warm him, but made him colder instead. Each drop spilled was one degree less. It was like a game, some sadistic game they played in the underworld; How many drops till Sands hits zero?

His guns, where were his guns. For some unknown reason, Sands could not figure out where they were, he could not find them anywhere. He remembered them being attached to his gun belt, but his thoughts were bleeding out of his eyes, caught in the blood's undertow, and he could not remember where the belt was on his body. Eventually, he gave up, his arm refusing to explore further.

If only he could just open his eyes and take a look around - wait, scratch that. No eyes to do that with anymore. This whole eyeless thing was going to be hard to get used to. He tried to imagine how many times he would wonder why his eyes wouldn't open before it finally sunk in.

It was like learning a foreign language. Wait until it stuck and you were home free, A+ on the report card that would be up on the fridge in no time.

Now it was growing painful to think, as if each thought took more and more effort until he was so exhausted, so pained, that he had to let go, give in and let the darkness take his mind, his sight already being gone.

|***|

When he woke again, he was lying flat on a table. Everything was still dark. Uh oh, don't forget to open your eyes, eyelids. And he did, and the world blurred before his eyes as if he was drunk. Because of this, Sands assumed he was drunk. No eyes, remember? They're puddles now, on the floor of some room. But something was trying to fool him, because he could clearly see a pair of brown eyes staring at his own. Yes, they're your eyes. Still here.

With intentions of turning his head a little to the side, he lost control of that, cheek banging against the table. Hands touched him, but he could hardly feel it. He felt no pain, no touch, no anything, as if he was detached from his body. The hands ran through his hair and a head lay down on his chest. It was then he noticed someone was lying directly on top of him. So he was their mattress, the confusion floating around the room their blanket.

A voice spoke to him, as if from a million miles underwater. "I couldn't let them go through with it."

Upon hearing this, he decided he should put his head back to where it was. His movements were sluggish and halted, but he managed to do so and scratch an itch on his upper right leg. He made a sound that did not have any meaning, because he was too far gone to manage words.

"I couldn't let Daddy do that to you." The voice said calmly. It was a woman, her breath tickling Sands' forehead and flowing into his nostrils. "Too nice to look at to loose them."

"Wh-?"

"Your eyes." A finger lay across his lips, silencing his efforts to make sense of the world. "Daddy wanted to take them, but I wouldn't let him."

And then he let his eyelids fall, the drugs deciding it was sleepy time again. He slept again on a table for a mattress, with a woman who had betrayed him for a blanket, and a steady drumming in ears for a lullaby.


End file.
